Out of a Book
by vinewood and dragon heartstring
Summary: At one point, you thought Blair encompassed everything you hated about the Upper East Side.


**Notes:** This was written for the Finish-It-All-Off Ficathon over on Livejournal. The wonderful **sinandmisery** and **shiplessheathen** provided the first paragraph; the rest of the words are my own, though the characters (unfortunately) belong to their creator.

* * *

At one point, you thought Blair encompassed everything you hated from the Upper East Side. However, seeing her sitting alone in the courtyard, ousted from the Met steps in some sort of power play from Serena, you realized you might have been wrong all along.

Blair looked regal despite her solitude, and you couldn't help but admire her bravado, even if it _was_ only hanging on by a string. A few of the lower classmen turned to glance at her and then shared a giggle; you visibly winced. No, you were not the closest of friends by a long shot (Blair had treated you miserably in the past for everything to be magically copasetic between the two of you), and you were not a fan of self-sacrifice, but you _were_ a gentleman so you were not surprised to find yourself standing before her. You feet had apparently moved of their own volition.

Blair looked up and her brow furrowed. "What is it, Humphrey?"

You regarded her for a moment before taking a seat beside her on the stone bench. You quickly took note of Jorge Luis Borges' _Fictions_ in her hands. "My favorite is 'Death and the Compass'. I think it's one of his best."

"_What_?" she repeated, her expression clearly conveyed confusion. "Cabbage Patch, what in the hell do you want?"

You deliberately ignored her question. "My favorite Borges short story is 'Death and the Compass'. But the entire collection is awesome. So is _Labyrinths_, his other collection."

Blair bit back a smile and then looked at the thin paperback, now resting on her lap. "I prefer 'The South'."

"So," you began, "is this for learning or pleasure?"

"AP World Lit."

You nodded once. You were also enrolled in AP World Literature at St. Jude's and it was apparent that the works list and its corresponding schedule was the same. You reached into your messenger bag and pulled out a well-worn copy of Aldous Huxley's _Brave New World_. It was not on the class curriculum but the book was one of your favorites and you needed something to do if you were going to sit next to Blair for the next thirty-plus minutes.

"Humphrey, what are you doing?" Blair queried. There was confusion and annoyance in her voice but you could detect an underlying vulnerability to her tone.

"Reading," you quipped. You knew that she was not amused so you turned to face her, your russet gaze meeting her enigmatic chocolate brown eyes. "I'm sitting with you, Blair. We don't have to talk; you don't have to acknowledge that I'm here. I'm just sitting with you."

She hummed in response but neither of you moved until the bell signaled the return to class.

- - -

You developed a routine.

Blair read for World Lit and snacked on fruit or yogurt while you rested beside her and commented on the pieces while eating more substantial food.

For all that you wanted to keep this as purely academic and impersonal as possible, neither of you much succeeded, and you found yourself learning interesting tidbits about Blair, like the fact that she was fluent in French _and_ Italian, that blueberries were her favorite fruit and that she would rather be housed in Jonathan Edwards College than in Silliman, her father's residential college while at Yale.

In turn, you let her find out things about you that no one else knew. She learned that your favorite author was not Jed Hall but rather Jane Austen, that you owned and had watched every single film available starring Humphrey Bogart ("Yes, _Sabrina_, too, Blair.") because he was your favorite actor, and that you were seriously considering attending Yale if you were accepted on account of Harold Bloom alone.

It hit you one Friday afternoon as you walked out of St. Jude: you and Blair were friends. You'd wanted to call Blair to check if she had any plans for the night; your father was having an exhibition opening at the gallery and Blair had dropped hints that she wanted an invitation all week. The realization of your newfound relationship with Blair was both surprising and natural, and you paused in the middle of the sidewalk to collect your thoughts. You would have never believed it possible since your personalities often clashed, but this..._thing_ you and Blair shared was like out of a book, out of one of the many collections of bound pages the two of you shared.

A loud honk startled you. You looked up and found a Town Car parked in front of you, the back window rolled down, and Blair peering at you from the depths of the luxury car, eyebrow raised in question. She didn't need to say a word; you understood her perfectly. You climbed into the car.

- - -

You didn't consider what sort of impact you and Blair would cause in her world until Thanksgiving rolled around. Eleanor Waldorf extended an invitation to her famous dinner to you and your family, and, after very little prodding, your father accepted. Jenny was still an intern at Eleanor Waldorf Designs, and your father had always liked Blair (even more so after the gallery opening where she bought two paintings and helped him sell two more), so you found yourself standing outside the building at 72nd Street and Fifth Avenue on November 27th.

Eleanor was extremely kind and polite in welcoming you. You spied Cyrus Rose chatting with another guest in the living room and determined he was the reason for her graciousness. Your father and Jenny quickly moved towards their circles, leaving you standing in the foyer alone.

Dorota came out of the kitchen and touched your arm. "Mr. Humphrey, Miss Blair is in the kitchen. She asks that you join her."

You smiled at the housekeeper, stuffed your hands into your pockets, and headed for the kitchen. Blair was standing at the counter, dressed in a strapless crème-colored silk dress that fell to the knee and Prada pumps. She was pouring pumpkin pie filling into the shells with such practiced ease that you couldn't help but smile.

"Looks like you've got everything under control," you said. "I don't know why you need me in here."

Blair rolled her eyes and a man in his early fifties, dressed in gray slacks and an emerald jumper over a tattersall button-down and golden tie, entered the kitchen. Blair topped off the shells and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel lying atop the counter.

"Dan, this is my father, Harold Waldorf. Daddy, this is Dan Humphrey." she introduced.

You shook Harold's hand and when he started talking to you like he'd known you all your life, you met Blair's eyes and watched her smile.

- - -

The trouble started nearly an hour later when the van der Bass family arrived. It seemed you and Blair had both forgotten that despite her falling out with Serena, Eleanor would still invite Lilly's family.

You were sitting in a large club chair, Blair perched on the armrest, talking to Harold and Roman about your visit to Yale. You weren't sure whom saw who first but in a matter of seconds, Chuck had stomped towards you with his perma-sneer firmly in place and Serena stalking behind him in a storm of fury. Any argument had been promptly cut off by Dorota's announcement that dinner was ready.

You sat at the large table nestled between Blair and Eric. Aside from Eric, the rest of the van der Basses sat on the opposite side of the table and wore matching expressions of antagonism. The dinner was tense but you made it through unscathed thanks to Harold's charming chatter and Blair holding your hand underneath the table.

After dinner, you and Blair snuck out to the terrace and sat on a settee to read Camus. You were twenty pages into _L'Étranger_ when Chuck punched you in the mouth. You remained sitting since Blair's feet were in your lap and the last thing you wanted to do was drop her onto the brick floor. While you wiped the trickle of blood from your lip, Blair had risen to her feet and pushed Chuck- hard- into the wall. Serena had stood in the doorway, speaking in a low but dangerous tone; it was a tenor you'd previously associated with Blair, though you thought it seemed to fit Serena quite well.

Their case against you and Blair was flimsy and selfish. B rolled her eyes and you sighed.

"Who says my relationship Blair has anything to do with either of you?" you inquired.

That ended the argument once and for all.

---

At one point, you thought Blair encompassed everything you hated from the Upper East Side. However, seeing her sitting alone on the chaise in your living room, your first novel in her hands, the Tiffany & Co. diamond ring you gifted her on her finger and a smile on her face, you realized you had been wrong all along.


End file.
